Song unsung///but singing still
Of cats and cookies
Of toes painted prettily then hid beneath wool socks
And the joy—oh the joy—
Of getting out of the house and into the blue wash of sun
Sweeping clouds off mountains;
Joy enough to surfeit the heart and this is enough,
Although your operatic voice remained untuned
(For who took a woman seriously in the good-old-boy-days?)
It is enough that you are singing still
In the playtime of sun and shadow.
The silence is colored with sound.
Published in Poems